Читать книгу The Mysterious Case of Cupid and the Drag Queen: A Love…Maybe Valentine eShort - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 7

The main bar looked like a crashpad for Dracula Prince of Darkness and his BFF, Malibu Barbie. Lots of dark red velvet, black wood, crystal vases and flowers. Pink flowers. Everywhere. I felt my nostrils wrinkle in response and stifled a sneeze.

The bar itself was long, dark, and garlanded with even more flowers. Behind it was a very tall, very broad, very handsome man. He had thick dark hair tied back in a loose pony, and vivid green eyes that met mine as I perched myself on a high-backed stool. He was beautiful, in a Pirates of the Caribbean kind of way – I could imagine him in a blouson shirt with frilly sleeves. In fact he was wearing a grubby paint-stained sweatshirt that said ‘Billy the Builder’ on it in block capitals.

‘Are you the private investigator?’ he asked, washing his hands in a sink behind the bar and drying them on a tea towel.

‘I am,’ I replied, introducing myself. ‘And I need to ask you a few questions about the day Cupid went missing.’

He nodded, and came round to sit beside me. I noticed that his fingernails were cracked, embedded with dirt and grunge, and wondered if I’d heard right when Dorothy said he was also one of the performers. Always one with the sneaky investigative techniques, I asked: ‘Did I hear right when Dorothy said you’re one of the performers?’

The club was officially called Francesca’s Friends, but was referred to by those wanting a cheap gag (this included me) as Franny by Asslights. It had a small raised stage where the performers showed off their many talents, and the bar itself was also often decorated with six-foot plus size supermodels with penises doing their own take on Coyote Ugly. It was actually a great night out.

Billy the Builder gave me a smile that could melt hearts, and nodded. He pulled out his phone, and opened the photo screen. He did the thumb-scroll thing until he found one he liked – and I have to admit it was a cracker. Very classy, as these things go – head to toe in a black tube dress, hair in a Fenella Fielding bob, make-up perfectly highlighting those killer eyes and cut-your-finger cheekbones. He was crooning into one of those old-fashioned Thirties-style microphones.

‘I’m Wilhelmina Wanderlust by night,’ he said, with an element of pride.

‘So,’ I replied, ‘you’re a cellar-man-slash-drag-queen-singer-slash … builder?’

‘Yep. I’m a man of many layers. You can unpeel some of them if you ask nicely.’